


my name is brutus but the people will call me rex

by showzen



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Blaseball is a horror game, Body Horror, EQ!Mike, Gen, Manipulation, eq!mike au got in my mind and wouldnt get out til i wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28016736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/showzen/pseuds/showzen
Summary: His outfit is far too formal for him; a collared plain-white shirt cuffed at the wrists and tucked neatly into formal black pants, with a gold chain around his neck, and what Dec thinks might be a coin on the end of it. He’s holding something shyly behind his back, shoulders curved in on themselves, as he’s wont to do. There are long, thin gold lines tracing along his face, dipping under one eye and over the other, down the bridge of his hawkish nose, following the curvature of his cheeks.(or: eq!mike does something stupid. very, very stupid)
Relationships: Tillman Henderson/Declan Suzanne, Tillman Henderson/Declan Suzanne/Mike Townsend (implied)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	my name is brutus but the people will call me rex

“Dude, I’m like, really good at this.”

Declan smiles as Tillman brags through a mouthful of cheese cubes. “Okay, okay, check this then. Trick shot.”

He bounces the next cube off of his elbow. Tragically, it falls far short of Tillman’s mouth, but he knee-slides (he’s wearing shorts, on carpet, ouch) and sticks out his chin, mouth wide open, to somehow catch it anyway. Declan lets out a loud whoop and starts cackling, and Tillman manages to crack a grin that isn’t shit-eating.

There’s a slam from down the hallway. Declan flinches, doesn’t turn around in time—Tillman, for a second, looks the same kind of scared, and then he semi-relaxes. “Oh. Hi, Mike.”

The almost questioning tone in his voice worries Declan, so he flips around, lounging two arms over the back of the sofa.

Mike looks dull. He always does these days— _ something  _ happened after he got shadowed, but he and Tilly can’t figure out what it is, not even when they get Jaylen on the case with them (which is an ordeal in itself). His outfit is far too formal for him; a collared plain-white shirt cuffed at the wrists and tucked neatly into formal black pants, with a gold chain around his neck, and what Dec thinks might be a coin on the end of it. He’s holding something shyly behind his back, shoulders curved in on themselves, as he’s wont to do. There are long, thin gold lines tracing along his face, dipping under one eye and over the other, down the bridge of his hawkish nose, following the curvature of his cheeks.

“What’s up?” Declan tries weakly, brow creased with worry. Mike blinks at him for a moment, seeming almost confused, like an old dog, and then shakes his head and gives a schooled smile. “Not much. What are you doing?”

He sounds wrong. More articulated, almost more capitalised. “Throwin’ cheese cubes into Tilly’s mouth,” Declan says, as casually as he can despite it all. Tillman nods, swallows his current mouthful, to emphasise the point.

Mike nods, but seems less interested than he once would’ve been. Declan remembers when they used to hang out and do this. Mike was a master of the trick shot.

He shuffles in place. Declan and Tillman stare at him, almost as if expecting something.

“I, uh,” says Mike. “Can I show you something?”

Declan shares a nervous glance with Tillman. “Okay,” he says, but stands off of the sofa.

Mike takes a golden laurel wreath out from behind his back. “Just try and remember this is only Fair,” he mumbles, before putting it on.

A lot happens in a moment. Mike’s irises (cool yellow, now, Declan suddenly realises, where once they were a soft brown) widen, his pupils shrinking to quivering steely pinpricks and then to nothing at all. More gold appears on his face—his skin flakes away, revealing a metallic layer beneath and a touch of bloody residue. His jaw trembles, and he clasps his hands out in front of him like a prayer, and a long, thin sword appears in his grip.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” says Declan.

“Whoa, shit, SHIT!” says Tillman, stepping up closer to Declan, throwing out an arm in front of him.

With his eyes all glazed over and gilt it’s impossible to tell precisely where Mike’s gaze falls but it’s clear he has his sights set on them both. He rounds the sofa, lifts his weapon. Tillman squares up. Declan cowers, instinctively falls to the floor, self-preservation.

Mike swings his sword down and Dec looks up just in time to see Tillman eviscerated. Well, damn-near—almost in slow-motion, the wound Mike opens stretches wider and wider, spilling inky black blood, and then rosy foil starts to spread from the site of attack, creeping up Tillman’s body. Declan can only watch in horror as his boyfriend-not-boyfriend is turned into a living statue in front of him, frozen in a moment of artful death.

There’s a moment of silence as he falls to the ground with a solid, metal clunk. Declan’s shaking harder than he ever has before, nausea rising hard and fast in his throat, and he looks up at Mike. And finds that Mike is looking at him too.

He shrieks and flings himself in the nearest direction that’s  _ away  _ from Mike—slams his shins into the sofa,  _ that’s gonna bruise,  _ before he hops up and scrambles desperately over it. Somehow, between all of his gangly limbs he lands on his feet, like a cat fleeing from a froth-mouthed dog, as Mike slices wildly at couch cushions. Stuffing sprays around the room like some sort of fucked up blood. Declan’s heart goes, ba-thump, thump, thump, thump, so fast.

“Mike,” he cries out, voice breaking, as he flees desperately down the hall, hands plastering against the walls. Mike flips effortlessly over the sofa and gives chase. “Mike, please, don’t, this isn’t you,” he gasps, feeling tears come to his eyes, threaten to spill. He swings a hand at Mike’s face as he gets a little too close—his hand comes away coated in whatever semblance of organic matter passes for Mike’s skin these days. Three neat fingernail-scrapes of gold are left behind and he feels like he’s going to throw up.

Declan hits the door, scrambles, fumbles for the handle, as Mike gets closer, closer, closer—

He gets it. Flings the door open, starts to let his legs carry him out on fuel of adrenaline and instinct and pure uncut fear, but stops himself. He turns one last time. Mike is stock-still in the hall, hunched over like something out of a horror movie.

“Mike,” he tries one last time, now weeping freely, bitter tears flowing hard.

Mike’s head twitches. The golden lines on his face, veins of quartz through rock. Open up. Tiny pupils blink and shake in their depths. He opens his mouth and out through teeth far too sharp spills viscous liquid gold. It drips, long yellow saliva strings rolling from his chin, staining his beautiful white shirt. Declan watches, wide-eyed, hands shaking.

“go,” Mike burbles. “so- s.”

He stares a moment longer. That sounded like Mike. Real Mike.

He shuts the door and runs for his goddamn life.

—

Mike opens, closes his mouth. Feels tacky, like a bad night’s sleep. 

“Well done,” comes some booming voice from behind him, a pair of grounding hands gripping his shoulders. “Shame you didn’t get the other one, but still. Well done, Michael.”

The praise ignites a tiny, distant flame of validation in his chest. He remembers why he’s here.

“what did i do?” he asks shakily.

A third hand rounds his face and gently wipes his chin. “The Right Thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> i literally dont even know if this is comprehensible but i got bit by the eq bug, sue me. special thanks to crabitat wrigen for this terrible, wonderful au. i'm seb#2979 on discord, come chat to me! i can usually be found lurking in the crabitat, screaming in the big garage, or hanging out between slowmodes in the maincord.


End file.
